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<title>The Art of Sincerity by FairytalesOfForever</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177509">The Art of Sincerity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairytalesOfForever/pseuds/FairytalesOfForever'>FairytalesOfForever</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Frenemies, Gen, Hamilton survives au, More banter than angst, Partial paralysis, alex can’t stand on tables anymore, burr likes metaphors, hamilton lives, hamilton survives the duel au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairytalesOfForever/pseuds/FairytalesOfForever</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s nothing like summer in the city...especially when you run into the man you shot.” Hamilton survives the duel, but not unscathed. Burr has to face the consequences.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Burr &amp; Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Art of Sincerity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s nothing like summer in the city—for better or worse, Aaron thinks, especially when you run into the man you shot.</p><p>The blanket draped over his knees is too still. His cheeks are sunken. His eyes, too, though they are still bright and burning. He reminds Aaron of nothing more than the hungry, scrawny, hotheaded teenager that he met in New York decades ago, if more ashen of hair and skin.</p><p>There is a pause and then, true to form, Hamilton greets first.</p><p> “Aaron Burr.” </p><p>It sounds wrong without the rhyme at the end. Whether he has finally tired of its humor or no longer thinks Burr worthy of the title—either way, it stings, more than Aaron will admit. <br/>“I didn’t recognize you,” he continues, “with an expression on your face.”</p><p>So that explains his first moment of silence. Nor I you with your mouth shut, Aaron thinks, but he’ll leave such remarks to the President. They’re not his style. And besides, he reminds himself with a twitch, the man has more than earned a right to his insults. So instead he says, “I see you’re back to yourself,” the corner of his mouth twisting upward. </p><p>Hamilton tosses his head—the movement of a wild stallion, high in a frenzy and chained to a post. “As much as I will be,” he replies, fingertips drumming on the wheels of his chair. “No more standing on tables for me, though maybe I’ll have you lift me up as your penance.”</p><p>“Help you rise above myself? Then my whole life has been penance.” Mentally, he grimaces, though you would never know it to look at him. He is in no position to be bitter. If their situation hasn’t taught him to give everything a second thought, then what will?</p><p>“If this is helping, I’m almost afraid of what you would call harm,” Hamilton replies, with—thank God—a humor about him. Forbid it that he be afraid, Aaron thinks wryly; only almost afraid, even of the man who—with a bit of metal, a twitch of a finger, and one thought too few—shackled his spirit, if never his tongue. </p><p>Guilt strikes him then, like the bullet that never did. He should apologize, he tells himself, but what if the moment is not right? Can he trust himself still? An apology hardly suits this scenario, but for once, to say less would be to his detriment. </p><p>“Alexander,” he starts. He takes a slow breath, letting the moment find its way into the space between them and settle in, though its seat is an ill-fitting one. “I am...sorry, truly and deeply. More than I know how to express, more than I dare say even you could, though that’s not a challenge.” He hopes that the humor and the subtle compliment will give life to words that feel inadequately empty. “That you have lived is nothing with which I may ease my conscience—I’ll admit it was thanks to no misgivings of mine.”</p><p>For once, Hamilton’s expression is unreadable, though his voice is light when he says, “So you do have a conscience. It must have atrophied.”</p><p>Clever word choice, Aaron notes, almost bitter but too wary of the feeling to call it so. “I acted in anger, which you know is extremely rare, and yet it seems...not rare enough.” He has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he’s finding that beyond not wanting to, he doesn’t know how. His brow furrows slightly, but to do any further would look clownish on him.</p><p>“Forgiveness is hard to come by,” Hamilton says bluntly. “You have heard such in proverbs, while I know from my own experience.” Aaron would have paused before the last word, but Hamilton is Hamilton, and if he’s going to confess, he’s going to get on with it. “I will give it sooner than my Eliza, I warn you,” he continues. “She would still put a pistol to your heart and call it a trial.”</p><p>“If you would tell her what I’ve said...it is not my place to ask,” Aaron says. Though in fact he is higher in position, how could Hamilton owe him anything now? “You would have my appreciation, but the choice is yours.”</p><p>“Leaving a choice to me? I’ll make it, if you promise a reprieve from your revenge this time,” Hamilton jibes. “Words may be my weapon, but I am a man of action, Burr. You know this. I trust your words less than my children’s storybooks—at least they pretend to mean something.”</p><p>“Alexander,” Aaron interjects. They have been over this point and agreed to disagree. “I mean everything I’ve said.”</p><p>Hamilton holds up a hand. The blanket over his lap is too still without the impatient bouncing of knees or tapping of feet as he warms to his subject. “I’ll wait for you to show me that you are no longer the man who proved my insult with your offense to it. Your words seem genuine, but genuine from you—isn’t. At least you are sincere in your insincerity. Perhaps that’s all I can ask, though I won’t believe it until I’ve failed at every avenue to prove otherwise.”</p><p>He is, Aaron decides, speaking with more meaning to himself than to any on whom his words might fall like rain. No—that analogy couldn’t fit him less. Thunder, then: loud, impossible to ignore, reaches for miles, keeps you up at night. Yes—thunder suits him, ironic perhaps for a man who lost his world in a storm. </p><p>Hamilton flicks the wheels of his chair and rolls forward a few inches. His eyes seem to flash. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the other shot heard ’round the world—their world at least—a world wide enough for the both of them. If only Aaron had realized it sooner. </p><p>“After you,” he says. </p><p>Hamilton gestures as if to move forward, but his face twists in a wince of pain. </p><p>“Are you all right?” Aaron asks, offering a touch at his arm. Looking down on the man, his fire and fury held back and his frame too still, is one thing; seeing the pain on his face is another, and the guilt stabs Aaron so that he can barely cover a grimace if his own. </p><p>“Fine,” says Hamilton with a determined flick of his head. “It has its moments, but I’ll live.” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know if that will cheer you or disappoint you, though.”</p><p>Aaron finally allows himself to smile.</p><p>Hamilton shakes his head. “My God, Burr, I may look like a skeleton, but you have a dead man’s smile.”</p><p>“I never did have your charm,” Aaron replies.</p><p>“If that’s what you call it,” Hamilton snorts, settling against the back of his chair and looking up at Aaron. “You wouldn’t wear it well, but some days, neither do I.”</p><p>“Is that the meaning of all of this?” Aaron wonders. “That we can only be what we are?”</p><p>“Perhaps then we can infuriate each other in peace,” Hamilton agrees, beginning to roll himself away. “Good day, sir. Oh, and—smile more. Just practice at it first.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I read a work called Life Hereafter by as_with_a_sunbeam (it’s fantastic, go check it out!) that was set as a very similar au. I loved the idea and I love the dynamic here so of course I had to run with it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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